


hold my own

by scramjets



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Requited Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 15:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8451994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scramjets/pseuds/scramjets
Summary: Following the events of Vulcan and early into their first five year mission, Jim concentrates his extra time and effort on fostering his friendship with Spock. Leonard finds himself at a loss in Jim's absence; taken for granted it seems, and reminded of the breakdown of his marriage. But that's his fault isn't it, for falling in love in the first place.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infiniteeight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteeight/gifts).



> Super huge thank you to infiniteeight, for not only allowing me to adopt the prompt, but also for cheerleading me through the entire writing process :D.

*

Leonard remembers the clock. Remembers sitting on the couch with the entire universe between him and his wife. He remembers staring the counsellor's face as she said words and phrases like, _r_ _econciliation_ , and, _communication_ , and, _your daughter_. He remembers glancing up at the clock on her left, and the creep of the minute hand that reeled them to the hour when they would be done. When Joce would pick up her handbag and thank the counsellor for her time, and say, yes they would come again next week, and yes — lying through her teeth now — yes, they were implementing the counsellor's suggestions into their daily life.

He would never correct her, moving with a certain sort of numbness to the reception area where he’d settle the account, schedule in another session; and then he and Joce would climb back into the car and drive back to their shell of a marriage where the only thing keeping them together was familial obligation and a three year old happy to see them.

Len hasn’t thought about it in years. Has tried not to think about it since stumbling onto the shuttle, and has not completely since he’d folded himself into the Starfleet and then — and by extension — Jim’s life.  But now he drags it all back out, holds up what he remembers of his marriage and what he has of Jim’s friendship like old radiography images; compares the breaks.

And he sees what he didn’t before — where he had shrugged it all off, or where he didn’t think about Jim’s disengagement beyond the adjustment to the title of Captain and all the responsibilities that it entails.

Len studies it all. The instances where Jim’s attention had slid away while they had talked — Jim’s eyes bright, but not on him. The _what_ ’s, and the _sorry_ ’s that had made Len throw up his hands in restrained frustration and ask, _What? Are those ears for decoration, Jim_?

Those couple of minutes Jim had run late to meet him, and how they had stretched to five, to ten — blocks of those one minute intervals stacked and building until it gets to the point where it’s just easier not to schedule anything, ‘cause chances are Jim’s not going to make it anyway.

Len scrubs his face after a long shift, weary in a way that would welcome a couple of drinks and maybe one of those movies Jim favours. Something with no plot and 21st century aesthetics. Hell, a part of him craves the sort of mindless chatter Jim provides — the gossip, where they’re headed to next. He misses it in a way that physically aches. Heart-sick for it.

He ducks into his office, sets aside his files until he’s uncovered the intercom and calls for the bridge.

There’s a brief crackle of static before Jim’s voice. “Bones?”

“I’m just about done here, if you’re gonna be free.”

“...Done?”

The question gives Len a pause, and then Jim goes, “Oh!” And at least, Len thinks, at least Jim has the decency to sound contrite when he continues with, “Hey, I’m going to have to ask for a rain check. I need to go over some things with Spock.”

Len’s shoulders sag. He’s exhausted right down to the marrow and what he wants to do is shut the comm and leave the room, because if Jim’s busy with Spock he may as well turn it in.

But there’s a spark there, something tight and angry that’s lodged between the cartilage and bones of his sternum — and so Len says, “Spock? That pointy-eared—”

“Hey, hey,” Jim goes, the warning clear, if not explicit.

“Okay,” Len snaps. “Fine, whatever. I take it back. How long d’you reckon you’re gonna be?”

“A while? Maybe? Look,” Jim says. “I’ve got to go. Don’t wait up. I’ll see you next shift, yeah?”

“Sure thing,” Len says, not bothering to point out that’s what Jim said verbatim two shifts ago.

Len disconnects and stands in the silence thinking, _shit_. He stands there thinking, _Jesus Christ not again_ , because when did it get that bad? When did it get to the point where something tense and brittle had begun to spider-web across their interactions?

Jim’s been a lot with him before — various degrees of upbeat and optimistic, never far from offering something inane — but Len knows Jim enough to understand that those waters run deep. He’s caught glimpses of the things that lurk there.

And Len was okay with that. _Is_ okay with that. He has witnessed and weathered Jim respond to the challenges of the Academy, and then the Enterprise. Sometimes it’s ugly, with Jim restless and unsure how to react to the permanence, stability, the accountability, and the end sum of a hell of a lot of people depending on his decisions...

Though all that though, Jim had never been angry at him in that cold, chilly way reminiscent of Len’s various and numerous failures with Joce.

He fumbles for a chair and sits, unable to hold himself against the sudden punch to the gut, the downright terrifying heave that follows — the idea of the one decent emotional relationship that he’s cared for, that he cares for since Joce, bleeding out in his hands in that same violent way.

You can work on this, their marriage counsellor had said, the only outside party who knew about the screaming and the accusations and the fights that never so much stopped, but went into ceasefire. The only person who knew that and had continued to tell them: With the right communication and acknowledging each other’s thoughts and feelings, you can work through it.

Except... Hindsight is always 20-20, and at least Len has learned by now that it’s easier to let it go. He does, after all, have Jim as a captain and as a friend, even if the friendship isn’t the same shape; to demand more than that, well...

He takes a breath and stares at the familiar walls of his office — the books, the files, the way the lights turn the white gloss a pale shade of blue — he has this. At the very least, he has this.

-

“Mornin’” Len says.

Christine returns the greeting with her eyes still fixed on her PADD. Len sips his coffee, idly watching as she taps the screen. The light of the PADD illuminates her face and catches at the corners of her tight frown.

“Something the matter?”

“Command wants us to reprocess all the samples we’ve collected since the mission.”

“That’s out of our hands.”

Christine hands him the PADD. “That’s what I’ve said _,_ and they want it to be under medical jurisdiction, not archival.”

Len skims through the correspondence, gets to the end, and then says to Christine: “There are over one thousand samples in there. Are they out of their collective minds?”

The first patient of the shift interrupts Christine’s response, and it’s a steady stream of minor injuries, scheduled rehabilitation, and general concerns before Len catches Christine over by the coffee dispenser.

“I’ll reprocess the samples,” he says.

“What?”

“The ones Command are on about. I don’t have a lot goin’ when I’m off-shift. I’ll process them.”

“Len,” Christine touches his arm; contact fleeting, hand cool. She says very pointedly, “We have orderlies for that.”

In the end though, Christine relents and forwards all the necessary information that Len pins to the top of his schedule on his PADD.

The task ends up being a far greater exercise than Len’s willing to admit, but it’s not entirely urgent, and so it fits neatly between whatever social interaction he gets and alongside his growing presence in the gym, where he runs to keep ahead of his own thoughts and the way they want to circle Jim Kirk.

It frustrates him, maddens him, because every time he thinks that he’s escaped it, that he’s pulled far enough ahead to remain unaffected by the lack of Jim’s presence, the universe conspires and hands him a Jim Kirk who awaiting treatment in the med bay.

And each time makes something ache in Len’s chest — a clench just behind his ribs whenever Jim tilts him an unsteady smile, too hopped up on adrenaline or painkillers to make the expression stick — that this is the only context he’s allowed him.

“You need to stop doin’ this,” Len hisses after the events of an eventful landing mission. A part of him wants to jam the hypo in, but what happens is that it barely makes a mark on Jim’s skin and Len soothes over the area with his fingers as an afterthought. “What kind of brilliant idea is it to send down the most important people first?”

Jim grins at him and says, his words fading in and out like a bad connection: “‘s why I have you, Bones. You got my back.”

“The Captain performed his duties admirably,” Spock says when it’s his turn for treatment, offering the words like they’re some kind of consolation for having Jim decorated in lacerations and contusions.

“Well, thank god for that,” Len mutters.

Spock’s skin is cool under his touch and he sits very still, wearing an expression that’s exemplary even. Len is not surprised. Spock had been, after all, a model cadet who had graduated the Academy with every single accolade and possibly a handful invented for him. He’s smart and more than competent, willing to push and challenge and support Jim into being the captain the Enterprise demands.

Len glances at Jim, still laid out on one of the biobeds, and back to Spock. So, no, he’s not surprised.

-

Jim's back within a month sporting two dislocated fingers. He’s agitated, jumpy and spitting with nerves, going on about how it should be him down there at the negotiations with Spock.

“Maybe if you hadn’t been so damn clumsy.” Len aims and then falls disastrously short of flippant.

Jim’s eyes are sharp, and the colour of them — the clear blue of them — adds a diamond edge to his expression.

Len’s heart trips over itself and he braces, expecting something short and sharp. But then Jim deflates, shoulders slumping forward and Len softens, sighs, and sets Jim’s fingers back in place.

“Spock’ll be fine,” Len knows he says it though it doesn’t seem like he does. Jim’s skin is overly warm under his hands. “He’s your first officer for a reason -- you oughtta trust him more, kid.”

“I know,” Jim says.

It’s the truth, but it’s also an awful sort of reminder. Jim leaves as soon as possible so he can get back to Spock, and if he’s thanked him, or hell, if he had said, _I’ll see you later, Bones_ , Len must not have heard it.

The negotiations are successful, of course.

-

Len’s technically two hours done with his shift, but he’s sequestered himself in one of the closet-sized offices to log analyses and reports and samples into their archival system. The last few landing parties had provided a wide swathe of new data that he’s eager to enter before the information falls into entropy.

The med bay is almost empty for once. Nothing but a rolled ankle that’s since been sorted.

Len keys in the information, shifts the codes and figures to their appropriate columns with the slightly delirious satisfaction that comes with a whole lot of neatly organised entries. His eyes smart and there’s an ache in his head that bridges temple-to-temple, and so it’s unpleasant when a crew-member barrels through the doors of the med bay and immediately launches into a diatribe about their shift, as if they’re on the open quad of the Academy and not the medical wing of the Enterprise.

Len’s hand slips on the screen and he curses through clenched teeth as Elma — the ankle injury — still laid up on one of the biobeds as far as Len knows, says, “Cool it, Riggi.” And with a bit of a laugh, “Doc’s in a bad mood today.”

Riggi stops. “He’s on shift?”

There’s a scuffle, the sound of feet hitting the floor.

“He’s around, yeah,” Elma goes. Len notices the way there’s a pinch in his voice; some residual discomfort, he suspects, not unusual after a muscle tear.

“Huh,” Riggi says. “I just saw the Captain. Thought he’d be here if the Doc was— oh, hey, you all right?”

There’s a hissed fuss of noise, a couple of instructions, and then Elma says, voice quiet, contemplative, “I think they had a falling out.”

Len hasn’t explicitly been listening, but he freezes at the words. There’s silence in the immediate aftermath and even if he’s hidden away in another office, it feels as if he’s been caught bare — the state of his friendship out in the open and with nothing to fight for it.

A fission of pain causes Len startle and he unclenches his jaw. It aches as Elma continues, his voice only a few degrees over the muted hum of medical equipment, and Len holds his breath and strains to listen, aware of the blood rushing against his ears and the heavy aching thud of his heart. He half expects Joce to speak, to say something to her mother who’s on the end of the line, so it’s a surprise when he catches the lower register of Elma’s voice.

“Yeah,” he says in that quiet way, odd for the fact he’s a big guy, all muscle. “A while ago, I think. They only really talk shop—”

“All right,” Christine says. Her voice is striking, makes Len’s spine snap straight. Makes him draw a breath. “You’re free to go Elma. Just take it easy and keep it elevated, and if you’re still having issues with it, just pop back in.”

“Thanks,” Elma says, smart enough to catch the subtle warning.

The two crew-members leave with little fanfare, thanking Christine for her time.

 _Please_ , Len thinks in the silence that follows, staring at the wall of data in front of him. He’s not sure what he’s asking for, but figures that no one listened anyway when Christine says, “Len?” a moment later, standing at the open doorway.

“I’m almost done,” Len tells her mechanically, because she’s been trying to get rid of him for the last hour.

The quiet stifles. It’s heavy. He has to think to breathe.

“Just make sure you leave someone for the rest of us to do,” she says, finally.

Len shoots her as much of a smile he can manage and opens a new set of documents.

-

 _It’s just until Jo’s done with school_.

Len had lost count as to the sheer amount of times he had promised himself this while staring up at the ceiling of the guest room.

Here, now, he finds the words are different, but the sentiment is the same: _It’s just four more years_.

Because if there ever was a lesson learned in living rural back in Georgia, it’s that times are rough and sometimes lean, and that you buck up and shoulder them. Builds character, his old man used to say.

Len pours all he is into his med bay; into the endless cascade of data that he compiles into tidy columns.

What’s four more years, he wonders, ignoring the way his heart traces the hours and the days and the weeks that will bleed into months, into years… and then into the open void of time.

-

“When was the last time you ate?” Geoffrey asks. Then he goes, “Go back to your quarters, Len. You need to rest.”

“Why bother asking the question if you already had an answer?” Len says. “Can’t anyway. This ain’t gonna do itself.”

He reaches for the file and stops because it’s not there. The fact that it isn’t stumps him, and he blinks at his desk where he’s certain he had placed it. Then he looks around, muttering as he shoves papers and pens and the empty stubs of used hypos that scatter on the floor.

“Len,” Geoffrey says, voice gentle.

Len turns on him, teeth tight around his words until he registers the file Geoffrey’s holding. Len shifts his attention to Geoffrey’s face, ignores the way Geoffrey looks back.

“You know Christine would not hesitate to sedate you.”

“I’m pretty sure that violates some sort of constitution,” Len mutters, turning back to his station. Geoffrey can keep the file. He doesn’t need it.

“And so does working for nearly two days straight. You need to go,” he says. “That’s an order.”

The stand-off is brief and Len concedes, dropping his stylus on the desk before moving to gather some documents. Geoffrey’s hand is light on his shoulder.

“Those can stay,” he says. “Go eat. Go sleep. We have your next two shifts covered.”

It’s difficult to scrape together any grand feelings in response to what looks like his medical team conspiring behind his back, but Len understands the leeway Geoffrey’s given him. He nods and stops when the immediate surrounds seem to buckle and twist with the gesture.

He does make it to his room though he doesn’t recall doing so. He does fall asleep though he doesn’t recall doing that either.

Everything occurs around him in a haze, so it takes far too long for Len to realise that he’s lying awake and that someone is knocking on his door. As soon as he recognises both these facts, the knocking stops, and there’s silence until the doors quietly whoosh open.

Len glances across the room to the shadow of the doorway, confused but at peace with what is happening, as if a part of him has already bared his throat to whatever the circumstances may be.

But it’s only Jim. Len relaxes on the bed, aware more than ever the exhaustion that crushes him and the way it ties with the aching familiarity of Jim in his quarters. How long has it been, he wonders. Len estimates a couple of months, though it’s difficult to parse in the way time has blended into an endless stretch of work intercepted with irregular snatches of sleep.

“Bones?” Jim calls, low and even, as though he’s afraid about waking him up even though he’s been beating on the door. “Bones?”

Len cedes to Jim’s presence — the call of his captain — and grunts out an acknowledgement before he drags upright to sit on the bed. Everything still has that funny tilt to it, and Len hunches forward, squeezes his eyes shut. His stomach churns and he can’t figure out if it’s because of Jim or the fact that a couple of biscuits don’t exactly make up for a wealth of lost meals.

When he blinks open his eyes, Jim’s at the foot of the bed and though he’s thrown in shadow, Len can see his grin, which is more glint of teeth in the quasi-dark.

“I hear they kicked you out of med bay,” he says, still smiling as if there’s a joke hidden somewhere, as if Christine would pull him aside and whisper it in his ear with all the savagery Len knows she possesses. But then the smile drops off his face and Jim must look — he really must look — because there’s a creeping realisation when he says, “Jesus. You look like shit.”

Len’s arms buckle and give, leaves him flat on the bed, and he stares up at the ceiling that yawns overhead. The shadows collect against the curve there, away from the flush of ambient light. It looks like a gibbous moon.

“I’m the CMO of the Enterprise,” he says it as a matter of rote. “I’m sorry if you were under the impression that it was all rainbows and daisies in med bay, where I’m paid to stop people from dying.”

Jim moves, padding around the end of the bed and Len turns his head to regard him.

The smile Jim wears is thin. There’s a crease between his brows that Len is too tired to puzzle out and so he doesn’t bother.

The weight of Jim’s gaze is heavy. Studying. And it’s… horrific, honestly. Makes Len think of Riggi and Elma in the med bay — that same sort of nakedness, only now the attention is focused square on him. Len tenses against the odd crush in the pit of his stomach; the instinct to squirm under Jim’s exact attention, suddenly warm.

It’s then that it dawns on him with all the unflinching brightness of a Georgia sunrise: he’s in love with Jim Kirk.

-

“What’s the look for?” Jim asks.

Len’s eyes sting from the screen. His shoulders ache, his neck is stiff, and his head pounds in a relentless driving rhythm that threatens to crack his skull in two. The yellow of Jim’s uniform does little to help. As far as Len’s concerned, the shade of it has been designed to burn away his retinas and he has to turn away.

The smile on Jim’s face slips, but is still firmly in place when Len returns to him. He has to squint against that, too.

“What look?” he asks, gruff.

Jim plants himself on the workbench, casual, like he hasn’t missed a day though it’s been months.

“C’mon,” he says. “You look beat. Have you had dinner yet?”

Len’s not entire sure if it’s the fatigue that tints the entire exchange with a kind of discord, or the fact that Jim’s actually there asking for dinner. He’s not even sure what time it is. A quick glance over his shoulder to the med bay tells him that Christine has left, and if he stops for a moment, his head offers the faint memory of her saying goodbye. Which, if Len’s honest, could easily have come from any day over the last few months.

“Bones?”

Len snaps back to the present, gropes for his scanner. “What? Is there something you need?” he asks. “How have you managed to maim yourself this time?”

Jim raises his hands. “I’m just asking about dinner,” he says. “That’s all.”

The silence is odd. Different to the tense truces he’d weathered with Joce, there’s something about it that he can’t quite grasp. Jim still has his hands raised and Len stares at the open spread of his fingers, the square of his palm.

On the right of him, the computer he’s working on alerts Len to the fact he’s taken too long to submit an entry. The sound jerks him back to the files and the PADDs and data discs that are scattered across his desk.

He sighs. “Jim—”

“Hey,” Jim says, finally setting down his hands, curling them over the lip of the bench. “You know I can pull rank, right?”

Len gives him a withering look and Jim smiles again, encouraging, and Len hesitates, attention flicking between his work and Jim, but then Jim gives him a nod and that’s it. All Len can do is follow.

-

Where he’s able, Jim turns up at either end of Len’s shift. He also sometimes appears in the middle of them, popping in with a grin and a hello to whoever else is around before abducting Len for something to eat. It’s like he’s picked up right where he had left off, like it had been those early months aboard the Enterprise. And despite his head telling him otherwise, Len relaxes into the easy familiarity of it.

He can’t help it. He knows it’s a bad idea. He knows he can’t have Jim beyond friendship. Jim has made it clear after all, even if he’s persistent about things for now. And even if Len did have Jim in some capacity, he lost too much the first time round with Joce. It’s self preservation, is what it is: the last time he’d been allowed to see his daughter was on a shitty comm system what feels like years ago.

There’s one particular night though, and it’s nothing fancy, not really — it’s a perfect imitation of the countless late nights in the dorms of the Academy where they had stuffed themselves onto the crappy couches and put on a movie.

It’s one of Jim’s favourites on the screen that night, with robots and monsters because Jim is five and amused by that — Len has told him enough times, even though he has also sat through each viewing — and Jim glances at him throughout the entire movie, face outlined in reds and blues, teeth bright in the dark, stubborn in the way he’s thrown his legs over Len’s. It’s this particular night where Len lets himself think that this is what Jim wants, too.

-

Weapons fit strangely in Len’s grasp. It’s counterintuitive. Holding a phaser. Firing a phaser. He’s read about the Great Wars in the 20th century. How the medics and corpsmen were protected by the blocky red cross they wore on their sleeve. Protected from enemy fire by the position they held as combat medics; hands empty of weapons and the surety of their safety upheld by the Geneva Convention.

The inhabitants of the planet live and breathe violence. It’s their first answer to anything, and however much Spock tries, logic is something that doesn’t appeal against the strength of their wants. They don’t trust a person who isn’t willing to fight.

Len has to stop himself from wincing at every suggestion that Spock makes, and it’s only due to the way Jim looks at him that keeps his lips sealed: the consideration and the respect that Len catches glimpses of in what he can see of Jim’s face.

So instead he holds his hands tight behind his back as the dread curdles in the pit of his stomach. The neck of his uniform is wet with sweat.

The natives to the planet disagree and disagree and disagree, and Jim, on Spock’s advice, pushes until they hit the breakwater that shields them. Len pinpoints the collapse and the following ripple of displeasure through the assembled diplomats before the head of the party says through the translator, “Unless you’re willing to trade with resources—” Human. A necessity for breeding, training. “We strike no bargain. Leave. Now. Or we take what we want from what you offer here.”

Jim’s eyes are stony — the colour of them dulled, ground smooth in his frustration. “Your Grace—”

Len barely has enough time to think before the beings who fringe the assembly step forward — the human shape of their forms melting into something animal and wild. A wave of cold adrenaline forces Len to stumble back. His heart thuds hard against his ribs. His breath catches.

They go for the weakest in the party first. The youngest there is a willowy ensign. Len has his body angled towards them, his weight shifted to move, and he shoves the ensign aside as the one of the beasts lunges for them, all heaving muscle and wide-open jaws. The power of its maw clamps down on Len’s extended forearm. Both his ulna and his radius snap and it wrenches out what little air Len has left in his lungs. The ground feels like it has fallen away from under his feet and he staggers.

There’s screaming and yelling, and he grapples at the creature’s bulk with his other hand; sliding through the slick of blood and sweat and coarse fur.

Thing is, Len’s trained too. As a medical officer who bares arms, he hands over the old convention in order to protect himself and those under his care. And so he jams the phaser against the broad flank of the beast—

“—Bones—!”

And squeezes the trigger as everything fades away.

-

Len wakes up in on the biobed with the particular feeling of his entire body feeling…

He searches for a word and finds nothing. All he understands is that his body feels _too_ well; too much of a cohesive unit after the months of grinding work paired too little food and rest.

“Bones?” someone asks.

Jim, Len corrects, because no one else calls him that. By the end of it, Joce had abandoned nicknames for the detached professional cool of _McCoy_. Doctor, if she was particularly sore.

Jim leans towards him, stubbled at his jaw, and with bruises pressed under his eyes.

“You look like shit,” Len’s words are burred.

Jim blinks, and then he smiles. “Hey there,” he says, soft. “So do you.”

Then he touches, his fingers gentle against Len’s chin and jaw, and even Len doesn’t have it in him to resist. God help him, he is only a man.

The thought of Christine blooms in Len’s head — if she’s around, or if she’s tending to the others from the landing party. The touches are incessant though, they turn his thoughts back to Jim and how his fingers are light against his skin, how they force Len awake; make him squint up at Jim who is haloed by lights that don’t exactly wash out the expression on his face: the pinch of his brow and the tightness of his mouth.

“You know,” Jim starts. His voice is unsteady and his eyes are now wide. “You know I can’t keep doing this.”

“Doin’ what, Jim?” Len asks. The words drag. “If it’s keepin’ me awake, I’m askin’ you to do me a favour an’ stop anyway.”

His throat is dry and Jim must notice because he pulls away to grab a glass of water on the side table. It’s a strange thing for Len to be the one to fumble before catching the straw in his mouth, having done the same for countless people. For Jim. Always the doctor and never the patient.

The water is cool against his parched throat, too painful to be soothing. Jim sets back the glass when he’s done though he doesn’t release it immediately. He stares at his fingers tight on the rim.

Jim’s tense in a way that Len recognises.

He can’t keep doing this, is what he said. This relationship, Len understands, and so it seems logical for him to say, “I’ll transfer out.”

Jim startles. Turns back. “Transfer? Jesus— why would I—? I almost lost—”

He stops and drags his hands through his hair.

“Okay,” Jim says. “Okay,” he says again.

Len’s familiar with this verbal tic of Jim straightening his thoughts. This is not Jim using any of his stock phrases or assurances. The ones that he couples with a sharp sort of smile that tends to precede a break-up. And when he speaks, when he finally does, it comes out in ragged incomplete bursts.

“I’ve been working on it, but I can’t... fix whatever’s wrong by myself,” Jim says. “I just… got caught up with everything Spock Prime was talking about... about us — me and Spock — being great friends, and I was... I guess I just wanted it. I thought it would… That Kirk. The one in that alternative future. He was... I—”

Len makes to speak. Jim slushes him.

“Listen,” he says, quiet. There’s a silence, nothing but the drone of the ship around them and their breathing. Jim’s eyes are bright and glassy. “But that’s _that_ universe. This is the one we’re in, right? Spock’s still first officer. He’s still the science officer for the Enterprise. He’s my _friend_ despite... But I shouldn’t be fostering a relationship to... to echo one that exists in another entire universe.

“Especially when... Especially when it’s at the expense of someone I care about here. _Now_ , Bones.”

Jim stops. A muscle ticks in his jaw and his hands are tight on his knees.

Awareness creeps through Len, brings with it the failed vestige of Len’s marriage that he and Joce had taken steps to salvage. The realisation crushes the air from Len’s lungs and he fights to scramble upright.

Jim throws himself off his seat in his rush to steady him.

“Jim,” Len says. “We never wanted it.”

Jim’s stares and Len knows from his expression that he has no idea what he’s on about.

Len’s desperate to share the revelation, but the words lose shape in his mouth, and he slurs out whatever he can as he fights against the black that’s heaving up around him; willing Jim to understand as he sinks back to sleep.

-

“I take it I don’t have to file those divorce papers?”

Len stares outright and Jim stares back evenly. The expression wavers after a few moments, and falls into an open grin. There’s a hesitancy in the corner there though, one that Len lingers on before he address Jim proper, grumbling, “The hell, kid?”

He’s still in med bay — cordoned off in one of the intensive care rooms though he’s fine. Why are they wasting the resource?

“Nurse Chapel says there’s room, so don’t worry.”

Again, Len stares and Jim stares back. Len knows he didn’t say it out loud, and Jim’s looking smug at apparently having read the thoughts off Len’s own face.

The smile disappears as the silence drags, and Jim licks his lips. “Um. The last time we talked, you mentioned… You mentioned your ex.”

Len studies the way Jim looks at his own hands, the way that Jim doesn’t exactly lift his head when he looks at him so the entirety of his expression comes from beneath the cast of his lashes.

He still aches in places. His arm hurts in a muted sort of way. He’s painfully aware of himself as much as he is aware of Jim. And what he had broached, whatever he had managed to force out, well... that comes with a painful sort of embarrassment.

This is hardly the time or the place. And further, he’s packed that, hasn’t he? He’s moved on. There isn’t any need to talk about it, much less with Jim, and he’s goes to tell him as such, but what comes out instead is: “With me and Joce — we never wanted to be in that marriage. We only stuck it out for as long as we did because we both thought it was the right thing to do, but we never wanted it.”

The large part of Len is horrified. It’s far too much and much too personal. And he clenches his hands where they rest and still it comes out, more exhausted than anything else: “By the end we couldn’t even stand to be in the same room.”

Len’s own memory of staggering into the shuttle as more a bundle of unpleasant, angry months doused in alcohol than anything remotely human comes to him. There’s a brightness to it though, in Jim, who had looked at him, looked at _him_ —

Len thinks of his daughter and how she used to trample all over him in the mornings, knowing to find him sacked out on the couch.

He says. Admits. Whatever it is he is doing. “I never wanted to live through that a second time.”

Jim flinches.

The medical equipment hums around them. There’s a comfort in the steadiness of it.

“How did the rest of it go?” Len asks. “The mission?”

Jim sags back on his chair.

“Y’know,” he says. “It could’ve been better.”

“Yeah,” Len says. “Sorry about that.”

“Command are reviewing the situation,” Jim says, and shrugs.

Silence settles and Jim sighs, leans forward with his hands on his knees and his attention keen on Len. Steady in a way that feels like he’s peeling the skin from Len’s bones.

“But I can’t have the Enterprise without her CMO,” he says, finally.

Len rolls his eyes. Makes a show of it.

“You’re the best there is,” Jim continues. “Don’t think she’d stand for anyone else, even if you could probably go do better.”

“Oh, now you’re just fishing, Jim,” Len tells him, harsh. “I tolerate the Enterprise being in space and all, but--”

“Bones.”

Jim says it with a sudden and precise urgency, like he’s thrown all caution to the wind and Len freezes, skin prickling with the sort of heat and awareness that he almost doesn’t recognise.

Jim’s already crowding him, doesn’t even have the decency to wait for a response before he cups Len’s face, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Jim’s skin is rough with stubble, and he smells strongly of med bay antiseptic and _Jim_.

Len’s head spins and his chest is tight, hands bunched in the slippery-gloss material of Jim’s uniform.

“Are we okay?” Jim asks. “You want to be here, do you? With me?” His breath puffs against Len’s face, warm and wet against his lips.

Jo is in school now, Len thinks distantly. Learning to read. He could send her something.

“I—” Len goes.

“Do you?” Jim presses.

“Yeah,” Len says. “Yeah.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Come check out the [Kirk/McCoy comm on imzy](https://www.imzy.com/kirk_mccoy)! We've just posted up Challenge Event #2, which is allll about pulp sci-fi covers and is therefore amazing :D.


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